Descant of the Nocturne
by axrinekey
Summary: Bruce tman/OC Since Harvey Dent's death,the crime rate of Gotham City had upsurged radically,including the jailbreak of Joker and tman was then forced to emerge in the dark and fight against e only obstruction was the journalist.
1. Chapter 1: The Night's Soul

**Disclaimer:** I do not own/associate with Batman nor any of the fictional characters. This is merely just a fan fiction.

**A/N:** This fan fiction is based on Christopher Nolan's Batman films, which means the Batman here is Christian Bale! Yes, most of the description is based on the what you see on the film. This fan fiction occurred after The Dark Knight, which is somehow related to The Dark Knight Rises (the upcoming 2012 Batman movie)... Enjoy, readers!

**- Chapter One -**

**The Night's Soul**

It was raining heavily. A crowd gathered in the cemetery to partake a funeral. They were all dressed in black, all holding black umbrellas. There were so many people that the cemetery looked as though growing black mushrooms. All of them were in grief and anguished, for the loss of the very eminent man in Gotham City. The grey tombstone was covered with the tears of the sky, the name of the dead engraved was so lucidly displayed – Harvey Dent, 1975 – 2008. Harvey Dent was the 'White Knight' of Gotham City, a district attorney who was very well-liked and revered by the urbanites. This was what he was, before Rachel Dawes, his fiancée's death and half of his right face was disfigured after burned while held hostage by the Joker. No one knew what he had become after the tragedy and trauma he contended with. Since then, he was no longer the 'White Knight' of the city but a man with the ugliest heart, the distorted vigilante who sought retaliation for the death of Rachel.

The people congregated in the funeral, including the urbanites and Dent's family, were in terrible sorrow for the loss, but no one felt worse than the man responsible for Dent's death. No one felt tormented as he did. He was the 'Dark Knight' of Gotham City, or at least he was once acknowledged as the hero of the city. Nonetheless, after James Gordon, the commissioner of the police department publicly (but out of his own will) declared that Batman was the man behind the assassination of Dent; Batman immediately became the fugitive, who was wanted by the government. No one knew the story behind as well as Gordon and Batman. Gordon felt guilt-ridden about what he had been entreated to do – to accuse Batman as the murderer of Gotham's "White Knight", so that Dent would be forever hero of Gotham City. The purpose of this setup was to retain the faith and belief of the urbanites towards light, the true light. Batman needed to veil this hideous secret – Dent's altered ego, so that Dent would remain as the hope of the city. Batman would rather take the blame to be at fault for the sake of the city. This was how much he loved Gotham City; this was how much he would sacrifice for Gotham City. He was never regretful for that decision, and if he was given a chance to return back to time, he will choose the same path he had chosen.

He was standing in the crowd. His butler was holding the black umbrella for him. He could sense the intensive melancholy his master was tolerating.

"Master Wayne," the old man with greyish-white painted hair, droned. The tone in him was full of concern and apprehension. He knew splendidly who his master really was deep inside the core, the soul that was trapped in this disguise… Alfred was not just a butler; he was also his parent, his guardian, his friend, his family, his confidante…

"I'm fine, Alfred." Wayne cleared his throat. He was listening to the sound of the falling of the raindrops, each drops plunged so delicately from the sky. Dent's death was not the only occurrence that made him felt so desolated. He had not gotten over with Rachel's death, too. Rachel was his childhood friend, his love interest, his heartbreaker, his only true friend… apart from Alfred Pennyworth.

Dent's family mourned with weeps. One of them cried, "Curse you, Batman!"

Wayne's expression changed. He frowned, not with ire, but rather woe and wretchedness. Alfred patted sympathetically at Wayne's shoulder. Wayne replied with a slight nod. The casket buried sixth feet under was begun to be enclosed by earth. Each time the earth was threw into the hole, Wayne felt something hard on his chest, and he was coping with breathing difficulty and uneasiness.

"Let's go, Alfred." He then left the cemetery with Alfred.

The first month after Dent's death, most urbanites of Gotham City censured Batman who was responsible for their 'White Knight's' death. It was of course inevitable for them to blame Batman. The TV was always broadcasting Gordon's statement on the stage.

"I am hereby today to announce an incident which will disappoint the residents of Gotham City," Gordon took a deep breath before continuing. "Batman had murdered our city's 'White Knight' – Harvey Dent. I know you may not believe what I have said, as Batman has always been the hero of the city. But this is the fact, the truth; Batman is now a criminal who is wanted by the police department. If you had seen him, do not hesitate to inform and make the call to the police department."

Then the next scene was Gordon, holding up an axe, destroying the Bat Signal which was located on the rooftop of the police department. Everyone was there; the media, the police department… Every time before he stroke, his hands were hesitant and reluctant to make the next strike. It was not palpable though, people who watched the scene would think that he was just taking a break so that he could strike better the next time.

The second month after Harvey Dent's death, the rage in the urbanites of Gotham City towards the homicide of Harvey Dent was yet to be calmed. All action figures of Batman had been banned by the government. All Batman-related issues and news were removed from the media. It was as though a declaration of breaking off the relationship between Batman and Gotham City. Of course, there was a small group of pro-Batman residents (Batman faithful fans) who had performed a demonstration stating that the disappearance of Batman was a conspiracy of the corrupted government. The government had made a proclamation expressing that the government had no connexion with Batman, moreover with his disappearance.

The third month after Harvey Dent's death, the pursuit for the truth by the urbanites seemed to be subsided. Gotham City returned back to tranquillity and serenity. The activists were not as active as the previous month. The government and the Gotham City Police Department's operations had recovered. Batman never appeared himself in any of the streets in Gotham City.

The fourth month after Harvey Dent's death, Gotham City seemed to be brighter and optimistic. The Wayne Corporation announced its latest technology on fabric specialisation and soon to be released in the market. It had also promoted its latest automobile, G-Wayne (combination of Green and Wayne), which was a battery-electric vehicle. G-Wayne's design was based on sports cars', where the doors were made of the butterfly doors (the doors of the cars were opened by rotating vertically and moving outwards at the same time). The price of G-Wayne was only affordable by upper class and wealthy family, though. They were sold in metallic silver, metallic black, red and yellow.

The fifth month after Harvey Dent's death, everyone had outwardly forgotten about Batman and Harvey Dent's death. No one really concerned about the incident anymore. This further encouraged burglaries and thieveries as they knew Batman had vanished and the police department was infamous for its corruption.

It was then the sixth month after Harvey Dent's death, the crime rate of Gotham City soared drastically. There was an average of 5 cases of burglaries, 4 cases of robberies, 2 cases of abduction per day just in Gotham City itself. Batman was the past and the forgotten piece of Gotham City. Most of the urbanites believed that Batman had been killed surreptitiously by the government.

It was October, autumn. In the middle of the city, there located a skyscraper. The building had huge title placed on its rooftop, "Gotham Globe". Gotham Globe was one of the noteworthy newspapers. Inside the building, the employees were hectically working for the next day's newspaper. Phones were ringing riotously, people were drifting and chit-chatting, the doors of the offices nonstop generating the sounds of "_Bang_", the sound of the scribbles… The whole building was filled with noises.

"Miss Beaumont!" the man on the phone yelled. "Come to my office at once!"

The girl who was listening to the phone jumped a little when she heard the call. "Yes, sir."

She slowly crawled into the office of the editor-in-chief. Her head was facing her feet as she entered the room.

"How many times have I told you that any related Batman issues are proscribed? Not restricted, it's _forbidden_, it's _illicit_! It's written in the law!" George Perry, the editor-in-chief, bellowed. He was actually quite patient with her. This was not the first time she had added Batman's name and the vigilante's battles for justice into the newspapers' articles. This was her 23rd time. She was fortunate that this man did not dismiss her.

She was muted. She bit her lower lips. The edge of her lips twisted upwards. She knew he wouldn't sack her because she was one of the best journalists in the building.

"From now on, you don't have to write about crimes anymore," Perry uttered at his darkest voice. "The board of directors decided that the Globe needs more bulletin on our 'Prince of Gotham'. Bruce Wayne is now a hot topic in Gotham City, due to his success in the international market."

She sensed an adverse feeling; it was an omen; something calamitous was soon to fall on her fate. And yet, she had to ask, "What does that have to do with me?"

"Of course it has," Beaumont couldn't think of the worst. She already knew what he was going to tell her, what he was going to instruct her to do. Her jaw dropped onto the floor. "I have decided that you'll be the one in charge of Wayne's news."

"You can ask me to write about mobster's stories, interview with Arkham Asylum's patients (specifically the Joker and Jonathan Crane, I'll really be over the moon), the corruption of the government and the police department… But not about the womaniser, _please_," she mourned.

"I never really get the reason why you dislike him so much. Bruce Wayne, the Prince of Gotham," he emphasised, "wealthy, powerful, successful – anything a woman wants. He's the dream man of every feminine soul."

"Yet, he's a superficial playboy, a womaniser, a Casanova, a brat that lives off his family's fortune," she disputed, "A young woman like me won't want a man like him, _seriously_."

"Don't say such thing, Carl. You'll never know about the future." He continued facetiously. "Who knows you might become the next Mrs Wayne?"

She almost choked as she heard the last sentence from the editor-in-chief. She quickly spat, "Touch wood!"

Perry chuckled. He was not like the typical editor-in-chief, who was described as hysterical, violent, psychopath editor like the one in Superman's comic – Perry White, even though they had the similar name 'Perry'.

"So, are you going to do it or not?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. She glared at him playfully, her eyes squinting. "You do realise that there are other journalists waiting for this opportunity."

"They aren't as good as me," she added instinctively.

"Yes, but the Globe won't be paying a worthless journalist that doesn't obey instructions," he spat spontaneously. He had his points, very solid fact. She did feel threaten. She couldn't tolerate with the idea of being made redundant. She had been devoted as a journalist because she thought journalist would somehow connect herself with Batman.

"_Fine_, I'll write about him," she replied with displeasure.

As she was about to step out of the room, Perry added softly. "You know, we don't really have to publicise about how impressive our Prince of Gotham is. Recently there's information leaked by an insider stating that Wayne's Corporation has some kind of association with the hoodlums and mobsters."

She understood crystal clearly of what the hidden meaning was. She jerked a smile in her face and walked out towards her table.

"Simon," she called the man sitting in front of her seat. "Time for a fresh operation!"

Wayne's Manor's reconstruction had finally completed (which had been destroyed by the fire caused by Ra's al Ghul 3 years ago). As a celebration, Bruce Wayne had held a feast at his newly renovated mansion. He had invited all his company's customers, investors, employees, friends, celebrities, models, upper class, politicians, high ranking civil servants, anyone you could name of that he had known of or even people he didn't know.

Beaumont reached the manor at 8 p.m. Even though the sky was full of darkness and the only dim light emitted from the sky was the moonlight, the manor was very visible, with itself being the light of the city. Wayne's Manor was the brightest spot in Gotham City at night. The manor was painted with light beige colour, with numerous sash windows hanging on the walls of the manor as though the walls were made of windows. The manor was quite a resemblance to a castle; it was very ancient-looking building. Even the carvings and engravings on the building were detailed and exhaustive. The manor was surrounded by a patch of grass field.

She stepped out of the cab she was riding onto. The smell of fresh grass filled her nostrils. She was wearing a pair of hazel-coloured contact lenses; she had her dark cherry red hair tied in an elegant bun, with a few strands of hair dangling and curled; her fringe was right-aligned and was covering part of her ears; her silver long sleeved and figure-hugging white dress was quite revealing, not in a slutty manner but classy, where her back was exposed with a V-cut directly until the end of her spine; she was wearing a pair of diamond ear rings; her make-ups were not dense but were adequate to enhance her beauty; she was wearing a 3 ½ inch crystal heels. All thanks to the connections she built up with all kinds of boutiques, salons, accessories and jewellery shops as a journalist. One of her secret as a journalist was disguise, wit and acting. She continued to step into the manor, before being halted by the guards who was standing inside of the vestibule.

"Please show us your invitation card, miss," one of them requested.

This was not what she had expected. _Invitation card? No one tells me I need one!_

"Uh," she quickly looked into her black shining clutch and pretended she had forgotten to bring along her invitation card. "I'm sorry. I have forgotten to bring it along."

"_No_ invitation card, _no_ entering," he continued mechanically.

"What?" she squeaked. Then she changed her tone again. "Come on, spare me this time. It's not like I purposely left it in my house."

"_No invitation card, no entering_," he repeated monotonously.

She bit her lips wrathfully. She took out her cell phone and dialled to the man in charge.

"SIMON!" she shrieked. "How can you not tell me they need invitation cards to enter the manor?"

"What?" Simon also squealed in a surprised tone. "I didn't know either!"

"How can you not know? You knew someone in there right?" she continued hissing.

"Uh, yeah, but that doesn't mean I know about the invitation cards, right?"

She ended the conversation without hesitance. Simon was her cameraman, her photographer, her information contributor, her friend, her co-worker, her partner… and yet this time he could not help her out. She continued to walk to the guards audaciously and brazenly.

She took a deep breath. "Can't you just let me in? I mean, don't you think you might irate Mr Wayne for not letting me, his guest, in?"

"I'm sorry, but I think I just heard someone calling my name." A familiar voice spoke from behind of the guard. It was not like she knew that person who had just spoken. His voice was so commercialised where you could hear his voice all the time on TV, any channel. People who had not spoken to him would have recognised that voice too.

"Mr Wayne!" the guards called.

Her eyes widened. She did not know if this was a good sign or a warning. From observing the optimistic direction, Wayne would be the one bringing her into the manor (despite the fact that there would be a lot of caressing and fondling, she expected that); based on the pessimistic view, Wayne would just kick her off the manor because he didn't know who the hell she was. Though the latter's probability would be much lower as she knew very well what kind of man Bruce Wayne was – he was just not the kind of man that would resist women.

"Wayne's Manor always welcomes beautiful women, Mr Derrick," Wayne smiled while approaching Beaumont, who continued to freeze. Her petrified smile was getting awkward. "Come here, darling."

Beaumont could feel coldness running across her spine that caused her to shiver slightly. Wayne grabbed her arm and made her crossed her arm to his.

"I'm elated to have such a beautiful woman calling my name," he expressed. "But I haven't learned about your name, darling."

"Uh," the only name that came across her mind was her mother's name. "Michelle Grey, Mr Wayne."

"Call me Bruce," he uttered. "It sounds more intimate."

Every word that slipped from Wayne's lips always caused her to feel nausea. She let out a cough. "Bruce."

"That's right."

Then, Bruce led her to the manor's great hall. There were countless guests invited, all had a cup of wine on their hands. She continued to scan through the hall to search for her mobster-list (or whoever in the criminal-list). Before she could really concentrate on what she was doing, she heard high pitch squawks.

"Bruce!" a group of women called. They were tall, slim (though to Beaumont, she would say they were undernourishment), wearing awfully thick make-ups, with very revealing dresses and Beaumont speculated them as models.

"Girls," Bruce grinned pleasingly.

"We have been looking for you, Bruce," one of the models whined. "Where have you been?"

"I was with…" Wayne looked around. The woman he just brought into the manor disappeared from his sight. He wondered a moment, but was distracted by the models in front of him, who were all trying to flirt with him. He smiled at them and cuddling them by their waists.

Beaumont slipped away when Wayne was unmindful. She took her clutch out and began to utilise the technology within it. Yes, there was a hidden camera in the bag that could either takes a snap of a photograph or performs as a video camera, it was 2 in 1; for exact, it was 3 in 1, including its usage as bag.

_Raven Dam… Terry Morgan… Joseph Bourdon… Kirk Jones… Florence Parr… _She simply mumbled to herself. She could actually remember most of the guests' names. Then, she discovered a familiar short and plump man, a resemblance to a ball. His stomach was sticking out which ruined the exquisiteness of the black tuxedo he was wearing. His hair was falling, causing him to be half bald. He was holding an empty wine cup. He seemed to notice the stare of Beaumont. He replied with a smile and a nod. After excusing himself with the people who were in a discussion with him, he walked slowly towards Beaumont (while bumping onto the people as he directed his way towards her because of his enormous overweight size and the overcrowded guests). Her heart was fluttering, not with excitement or anticipation, but rather with terror and disquiet.

"Good evening, milady," he bowed with decency, but the smile in him was distorted and ugly.

"Good evening, Mr Townsend," she called the name of the leader of a mobster. She forced a grin in her face.

"Oh, so you know me?" he raised an eyebrow. He seemed contented.

"Of course, you're quite of a well-known gentleman," she almost choked as she spoke.

"In a bad way, you say?"

"No, not at all," she hastily changed the topic. "I didn't know you're a friend of Bruce Wayne."

"Ah," he giggled. "I'm just a soon-to-be investor of his company."

"I see," Beaumont nodded lightly.

"I haven't got to know your name," he moved closer towards Beaumont, while stretching him arm and grabbed onto her waist.

"M-Michelle Grey," she coughed, feeling rather uncomfortable and ticklish with his grip.

"What a beautiful name, Michelle. Would you-"

"Michelle!" Someone cut Townsend's line bluntly. At first thought, Beaumont believed someone came to her rescue from a pervert. But the thought snapped when she came back to reality as the man who interrupted was Bruce Wayne. "I was looking all around for you."

"Were you?" she raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry to interject the intense conversation, but she has promised me to spend the night with me today," Wayne replied with a smile and dragged her away.

She choked while breathing. "What?"

"Dance with me," he mandated sternly.

"What?" she repeated again.

Without hesitation, Wayne grabbed at her waist as the music started to play. Her face was just a few inches with his. Wayne was leading the dance.

"I don't know how to dance," she replied reluctantly, trying to shove off his grip.

"Just sway your body," he replied monotonously.

She did what she was told, swaying. Both of them continued to vacillate at the same spot, a few times Beaumont would accidentally stepped onto Wayne's foot and shouted, "Oh my God! I'm terribly sorry. Really, I'm really sorry!" and Wayne would reply "It's alright."

"So, tell me, Michelle," Wayne asked, but his eyes was wandering around. He wasn't even looking at her. "What is your occupation?"

She frowned with his rather discourteous behaviour and then replied him with a rough voice. "Modelling."

Wayne spat a chuckle. From her height and body figure, she wouldn't be chosen as runway model; from her facial look, she didn't have those sharp features like those for cosmetics; she wasn't those who would reveal her body, from the way she wore the dress, henceforth she wouldn't be a fetish model or gravure idol; she didn't possess the very healthy and strapping body figure, so she wouldn't be a fitness model. Wayne had encountered hundreds of models, so when he sees one, he'll know if she's a model; when he saw Beaumont, she stood 0% chance of becoming a model.

"What are you laughing about? Are you undervaluing me?" she spurted as though she really _was_ a model. She stepped on his foot weightily and pretended it was an accident while murmuring a soft "Sorry". It was natural for a person to fight back when someone was underestimating one.

"No, I'm not," Wayne ceased his chortle. "So, what company are you bonded with?"

"Uh," she paused. Why did he have to ask so many questions? She was recalling the names of modelling agencies pensively. The only agency that came into her mind was the one with quite highly famed. "IMG Models."

_Impressive_, Wayne thought himself, laughing deep inside the core. He was rather overwhelmed with her 'performance'. "Ah, the agency that represented by Tyra Banks, Kate Moss. So, you're from New York City?"

She would, if she could, to slap her own forehead real vigorously. She couldn't believe she was involved in this absurdity. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Yes, I am."

Wayne continued to look around and realised that Townsend was keeping an eye on him the whole time after he dragged Beaumont away.

"Follow me," he halted himself from swaying, and then continued to drag Beaumont away from the crowd and up to the almost spiral-in-shape staircase. The staircase was massive in size, there was a window hanging beside of it. It was dark when they stepped into the second floor. Wayne entered a room and released her.

"Stay here," he warned. "Don't try to escape!"

Then he shut the door with a slight slam. When Wayne meant "don't try to escape", it was actually an expression to tell her that there was no use for any attempts. The door was locked, the door was made of high quality wood which if you had knocked or hit on the door, there would be no sound transferring to the other room; the windows were meshed with iron bars. There was no way out of that room.

"What is this about?" she muttered to herself. The room was filled with darkness. She could barely see her own fingers in the dark. She walked slowly and directionless until she felt a concrete object. It was the wall. She walked along the wall and found a few buttons. She quickly pressed on them and the lights were turned on.

"Where the heck am I?" she asked herself. She was in a room with a gigantic sleigh bed in the middle of the room. There was an antique wooden brown table just opposite of the bed, with a harmonising wooden chair beside of it. The table was in between two vast cupboards with matching colours. The floor was made of dark red carpet flooring. There was another door which Beaumont had hypothesised it as the door that led to the bathroom. She sat on the bed, which was quite comfortable. She took off those throbbing heels which had been causing her feet to swell the past few hours. After waited for a few minutes, she walked towards the windows, which was of the right side of the bed, opposite of the entrance. She stared intensely over the window to see the invitees leaving the manor.

_Oh my God! He didn't mean what he said, did he?_

She quickly ran towards the door that led her into this room. She turned the door coolly, and turned again, and again… No, she couldn't open the door. Then, she wasn't turning the door knob anymore; she was literally pulling the knob and hitting the door. She was crying in her heart. Spending a night with the irresponsible womaniser? This thought sent her shivers. She didn't even want to continue to ruminate about it. She took out her cell phone and called her only friend that might be able to lend her help.

"SOS Simon!" she yelled.

"What is it, Carl?" Simon asked in an anxious tone.

"I'm locked in Wayne's Manor!" she replied in panicky voice, "Locked by Bruce Wayne!"

"WHAT?" he screamed. Beaumont thought he was surprised and was going to save her, or at least worried about her, but on the other hand, Simon wasn't at the equal frequency with hers. "Isn't that great? Look at you, what kind of man would want you? Now that Wayne himself-"

"SIMON!" she hollered vehemently and yet shaky.

"A decent woman shouldn't shout like that, you know?" Wayne's voice startled Beaumont, who jumped and almost kicked at her own legs. She turned her head to face him. "I suppose the purpose of you creeping into my manor today is to get some information to either condemn my company or Mr Townsend."

She bit her lips. No voice left her lips.

"Yes," he nodded confidently, "I know you're a reporter-"

"Journalist," she corrected him. He threw her a squint. "Journalist sounds more decent."

"Journalist, reporter, paparazzi, they don't differ much to me," he rolled his eyes. "Miss Beaumont."

She bit her lips even harder, this time causing a slight bleeding at her lower lips. Her eyes enlarged with bewilderment. "How did you-"

"I'm Bruce Wayne, I know _everything_," he smirked at her. "I don't mind you to write about me or try to condemn about my company. But don't waste your time on dangerous men like Fred Townsend."

"Why not?" She continued to ask. Then, something seemed to tick in her mind. She gasped. "Wayne Corp must be having some kind of illegal relationship with the mobsters, isn't it?"

Wayne rolled his eyes once more. "I have warned you not to interfere with this matter. You can do whatever you like, write anything you want, but just don't stick your nose in _this_ matter."

It was the first time she saw Wayne being a rather solemn and sombre man. Was that a threatening tone he was delivering? She started to doubt about the personality of Bruce Wayne. As she was about to consider that Wayne was maybe a nobler man, Wayne had his arms pressing against the wall. She tried to step backwards but realised herself colliding onto the wall. His face was just a few inches away from hers. She could hear every breath he was taking and each breath was so clear. She could feel his warm breath.

"Since I have given you a little warning about the dangerous man, don't you think I should be rewarded?" His face was getting closer… and closer… and closer… before Beaumont sent him a brisk and stinging slap to his left cheek and a powerful step onto his right foot.

"This is what happens when Batman is not around!" She bellowed furiously. She pushed him away and trampled out of the room.

Wayne pressed a smile in his lips as she walked. Then slowly, the smile perched and slanted downwards, but no one could see it.

"Miss Beaumont, do you need a ride home?" Alfred asked. "It's not safe for a charming young woman to go home alone by feet."

"No thank you!" She continued to pass by Alfred, who was still staring at her as she stamped her way down the stairs.

"Master Wayne will be worried-"

"I've said no thank you!" she repeated without looking at Alfred. She opened the main door of the manor. Before stepping out of the manor, she turned her head to Alfred, who was standing at the hallway of the 2nd floor. "If anything happened to me, blame your Master Wayne."

Then she slammed the door with such mighty force. Alfred continued to ogle across the door; the sound of the slamming was still fresh in his mind. After that, he walked to the guest room where Wayne was still in. His posture never shifted. His right palm was still pressing against the wall, but now his left hand holding his cheek.

"You don't really have to act like you're really a playboy, you know, Master Wayne," Alfred spoke. He was sympathised with Wayne's occasional pretence, which he knew it was against Wayne's nature.

"You don't understand, Alfred," he finally moved his frozen body though it was rather hesitant to move.

"Explain to me then. Make me understand."

"Those eyes of hers… They were like Rachel's… I mean," he breathed in before continuing, "it was like she noticed something, she wanted to believe in me. I can't risk that chance to reveal who I am."

"But still, you don't have to make it hard for yourself or her," Alfred grabbed onto Wayne's jaw and examined the redness of his left cheek. It was swelling partially. "Oh, she was quite hard on you."

"So, did the driver send her home?" Wayne cleared his throat.

"Nope," Alfred shook his head. "She rejected the offer."

"What?" Wayne couldn't believe what he had heard from Alfred. "The crime rate of Gotham City has been increasing radically!"

"I've warned her," Alfred tilted his lips.

"She just won't listen, will she?" Wayne spurted irritably. He was rushing into his room.

"Are you sure you're going to do this, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked for confirmation. He knew what his master was about to do. "You might be glimpsed."

Wayne did not reply to his question. He just couldn't pass his conscience, knowing a woman might be in trouble because of him. He never really wanted to live under a guilt-driven life. He continued to turn the non-functioning grandfather clock to 10:47. One of the book shelves in his chamber opened and a well-functioning elevator stood still just behind of the book shelf. Alfred stared at his master entering the elevator and less than a second, the elevator descended with a whoosh. The book shelf returned to its original position and the hands of the grandfather clock began to shift their places.

Beaumont had reached to the centre of the city. It was dark and cold. There was not a single human being walking down the street or at least not that she could have seen. She was alarmed and cautious with her surroundings all the time. She was so disquieting that she was startled by the hissing sound produced by the flying newspapers and the purring of the wild cats. She increased her pace every time she was sent a jump.

She often looked at the dark sky, staring over the twinkling stars and the dazzling moon. It was soothing and It sort of calmed the inner dread deep in her core. Then, as she looked up the sky this time, she saw a dark silhouette staring at her. It was surreal. She was confident it was not just any wild cat or any wild dog, any kinds of objects. No, she was sure with its outline. Although the next blink, it disappeared from her sight.

She murmured the first thought that came into her mind. "Batman."


	2. Chapter 2: IllStarred

**Disclaimer:** I do not own/associate with Batman nor any of the fictional characters. This is merely just a fan fiction.

**A/N: **Finally, update! I've just finished my major exam so now I'll fully concentrate on my fan fictions! Hope you enjoy! And thank you for the favs and reviews!

**- Chapter Two -**

**Ill-Starred**

"Hey Carl! Carl! Carl! CARL!" Simon bellowed in the end. Everyone in the building stared at him. His face was flushed.

"Huh? What?" She finally heard him, after being called for several times (she only heard the last call though).

"What happened to you lately? You're not focused, you don't hear people, you're day-dreaming all the time," then he snatched the paper she scribbled. He rolled his eyes when he saw what she delineated. "You're kidding me, right?"

She cleared her throat before snatching back her paper. She looked at it as though she did not know what she had done to the paper. It was full of sketches of bat outlines, like the batarangs (bat-shaped boomerangs) Batman used.

"Batman again, huh?" he sighed. "You do realise Batman is gone, right? He's never coming back, not when he's a fugitive."

She was in no doubt that she saw Batman the other night. She wouldn't be wrong. She was certain. He was there, solid and real. Even though after a blink of her eyes, the silhouette disappeared, but she assured that he was Batman. It was not the like the situation where you were positive that you saw something, it was the kind where you actually saw the solid figure for at least a few seconds and you were sure that you saw it.

She then whispered, very softly. "What if he's back? He has returned? Maybe he saw the city is getting into a chaotic situation, he wanted to-"

"Cut the crap, will you?" Simon snapped. "He's wanted by the police and the government. Do you think he's stupid enough to risk himself for nothing?"

She bit her finger. She was not swayed by that reason. She believed solely her vision. "Nevermind, just pretend I've never mentioned anything about the Batman."

Simon raised an eyebrow and frowned.

"I'm fine," she continued to sigh.

As Simon walked back to his own place, she started to plan a strategy to prove she was correct. First, she had to meet a few criminals who were apprehended by Batman, and then she had to "date" a few mobster leaders. What was she risking her life for? She didn't know either. Maybe the truth, curiosity, justice, belief…

"Hey Beaumont, you have delivery!" a man called as he approached Beaumont with a white box. "From… Bruce Wayne."

She gawped at him for several seconds, puzzled. She wanted to reassure herself that she misheard what she had just heard. She blinked a few times, frowning.

"BRUCE WAYNE?" She heard the other female colleagues of hers screamed several times at the name. They all halted their actions – typing, writing, musing, just after the second he read the name. The women continued to move forward their footsteps towards Beaumont's seat.

"What did he send you?" One of them asked.

"Why is he sending you a present?" The other voice questioned.

"What's your relationship with Bruce Wayne?"

She ignored all the questions posted around her ears. She was reluctant to open the box, but she could feel the tension, the curiosity, the enthusiasm surrounding the environment, embracing her. She slowly opened the box, and before she could see anything, the others were already gasping "OOOOH" and "AHHHH". As she finally saw what were in the box, she was not surprised at all, because they were the heels she left in the Wayne Manor, those that made her walked through the stinging and coarse-surface road with her bare feet. It was not a very pleasant but excruciating journey. She recalled how she cursed Wayne for what he had done and how her feet were almost bleeding until she reached home.

She ignored all the questions inquired by her colleagues, she never even replied Simon's. She stared at the clock; its needles were showing 5.00 p.m. She packed her stuff into her brown leather sling bag and headed towards the elevator. She hadn't forgotten what she wanted to do at that instant. As she reached the ground floor of the building and walked out of it, she went into a cab.

"Where do you want to go, miss?" the cab driver asked politely. Ironically, he had a rather unkempt facial hair and his dark brunette hair was muddling at each other. Other than that, he looked kind.

"Arkham Asylum," she replied coolly. The man stared at her for a moment, wondering if he had misheard what she just replied. Considering her decent look and dressing, he couldn't think of a reason for such woman to visit such place. Yet, he wasn't a blabbermouth who would meddle about people's business. So, he gave her a nod and drove her to the destination.

When she finally reached the asylum, she paid him the amount including some tips.

"Thank you, but I shall warn you, miss, this is not a playground," he notified. "Be careful."

She knew much better than the cab driver. Who was she? She was the journalist, she knew most things about the city, she knew about the peril and the hazard she was tackling with, she knew what kind of zany scoundrels and rascals were admitted into the Arkham Asylum, she knew too well.

She walked into the asylum, which actually looked like a haunted jail. The black gate was like a claw, ensnaring anyone that gaited into the asylum. As she walked into the building, she could see dark heavy clouds approaching from the west. She ignored the thunder stroke and the lightning flash; she then quickly increased her pace into the building before another strike was heard. The building was eerie and unnerving. She felt coldness and breeze. She could sense an impulsive nippy feeling sent into her spine, causing her to shiver marginally. She stepped towards the somewhat reception-like table, but the receptionist was very dull and gloomy.

"Uh, good morning," she wished, trying to display a pleasant smile.

"No visitor allowed," the old grumpy woman spoke. She did not even send a glimpse to her.

Beaumont bit her lips and frowned. She stretched her right arm into her sling bag and tried to dig deeper to find something important. "Uh, I'm a journalist. I'm here to interview the Joker."

She gulped the lump in her throat. She finally reached her credentials and then presented them to the receptionist, who didn't seem to be interested to it.

"I'm a journalist from Gotham Globe," Beaumont stared at her enthusiastically. "Globe is going to uh… write an article about the Clown Prince of Gotham… uh… So…"

The old cranky woman requested, "Your ID card."

Beaumont took her wallet out and handed out her identity card. The old woman continued to scribble her information into a book. Her lips were mumbling but Beaumont couldn't hear whatever that left her lips.

"Sign here," the old woman pointed at a book irascibly, as though she wanted Beaumont to disappear from her sight and stop sending her troubles. She was the kind of woman who just wanted to work a simple job and led a guideless life. She preferred to just sit and do whatever she liked at the reception desk, without anyone hassles her or halts her from doing what she liked. She was really aggravated when Beaumont came and pestered her. "Turn right and walked to the end. And take this."

"Right," she nodded lightly as she grabbed a card, then she continued to wonder if anyone would escort her, but looking at the scowled face of the old woman, she understood completely and walked towards the room she was directed to by herself, alone.

As she passed through the hallway where there were doors located alongside, she could hear hysterical laughter, agonising screams, eccentric self-mumbles, uneven door or wall knocking sounds… The whole building was filled with anguish, angst, distraught, wildness and aggressive. She tried to keep her head up and ignore all the voices she heard. Finally as she reached the last room at the farthest end of the hallway, she read the words on the name plate dangling at the steel door, carved with "The Joker". She tried to get a peek at the small window above the name plate, tip-toeing, but she could only see images vaguely, very nebulous. She squint her eyes, her palms facing and resting on the steel door, irrevocably she could see something more lucidly. She thought she saw two figures kissing very passionately. She watched the two figures so intensely but her tip-toeing feet no longer could bear her weight anymore. She accidentally tripped over her feet and her head knocked onto the steel door. Instantly, she could hear some muffles created in the room and hissing of the footsteps. She knew someone was coming out from the room. The door opened itself, a woman, with long straight chestnut-coloured ponytail tied at the back of her head appeared behind of the door. Her doctor coat was hanging at her shoulder and the buttons on her white silk shirt were hastily fastened, hence some of the buttons were detached and unbuttoned. Her face was smeared with red lipstick.

She cleared her throat and neatened her hair. She narrowed her eyes, "Who are you?"

Beaumont tried not to think what she just saw, or ruminating whether the surreal image was factual or not. "Uh… I'm sorry. I'm a journalist from the Gotham Globe, the local newspaper. I'm here to interview the Joker for an article."

She made the lie seemed so tangible, even she had thought of it being genuine. She should stop snapping herself off and play with the falsehood. The woman seemed to believe what she said, though she still stared at Beaumont with those sceptical eyes. Beaumont took a glance at the woman's credential – an ID card suspended at the little pocket of her doctor coat. It was written 'Dr Harleen Franzes Quinzel' with her stunning passport photograph attached beside.

She continued to crawl back into the room while shutting the door, without notifying Beaumont. Beaumont frowned as the door slammed in front of her. This woman actually sent her some nerves; and even such woman, who was decent and picturesque yet spine-chilling, could frighten her this much; she dared not imagine what would happen when she meets the Joker. The only thing she remembered of the Joker was his yellowish green disarray curly hair, the red-lipstick smeared on his lips and the Glasgow smile. That smile was the last thing she would ever want to imagine. It was traumatic, horrid and incubus. Just by envisaging his facial appearance was great enough to send her the cool shivers. Her feet were about to move backwards. She wanted to leave this horrible place. Her feet were ready to sprint. Yes, she was indeed regretful to have visited this asylum. If she was given a choice again, she would just go home and sleep. What was she risking for anyway?

"Go in," the feminine voice spoke. Beaumont had not noticed Quinzel's presence. She jumped a little and quickly she cleared her throat. She forced her reluctant feet to step forward. There was as though a force pushing at her and on the other hand, she used her inner strength to push herself against that force.

"Harleen darlin'," the very unfamiliar, hair-raising voice spoke with a loving tone. "Leave us alone."

Beaumont, who had not turned her sight to the Joker, however, was staring at the shutting door. She was hoping Quinzel would be there with her, at least there would be someone in the room, besides the Joker and herself. Now she was all alone with the Joker, the bloodcurdling killer, the menacing robber. Her mind was totally frozen, so was her body.

"'Ello," he greeted with a grin. She was standing there, petrified. Her face was white and pale. She looked exactly like those stone-made statue which was basked under the sun for years – totally bleached and decolourised.

"Take a sit, sweetie," he requested while pointing at the chair opposite of where he was sitting.

_Why aren't there any guards here? Why is it so soundless here? If I scream, will it be inaudible? Is there air-conditioner installed?_

"Sweetie?" he called again. This time, she paused what was hurling and goading in her mind. She just wanted to calm herself down. She swallowed the obstructive lump in her throat forcefully while walking towards the chair and sat down, as she was instructed to do.

"Now, don't you feel better?" the Joker continued to speak. "So, what is it that you want to ask, miss Gotham-Globe-journalist?"

Slowly, her eyesight moved from her feet to the Joker's face. His eyes were black like coal, his green hair was cluttered, he was smiling widely, or was he? His Glasgow smile was certainly confusing her. She had no idea if he was smiling or his lips were actually curled downwards. It was too perplexing and befuddling. After that, almost immediately, she turned away her gaze and her eyesight was irrepressibly shifting away from the Joker.

"Is there something wrong on my face?" he asked again.

"Uh… N-no!" she shook her head vigorously. She continued to look intently at him but she just couldn't stop herself from gazing at his Glasgow smile, his wide spreading and curling upwards lips.

There was a rigorous and intensive coolness in the atmosphere. Both of them remained in silence. Beaumont was staring at the Joker's lips, and Joker in turn, gawped at Beaumont, full of curiosity and wonder.

He continued to raise his eyebrows. "Do you know it's rude to stare at people?"

"Oh, sorry," she hurriedly apologised. "I didn't mean to… I know it's rude but I just…"

"It's alright, my dear. I've seen worse. People yelping at me, calling me a monster; I'm quite used to that. But I've always been thinking," he cupped his jaw and rubbed it lightly. He sent a ghastly look, "do they even deserve to call me a _monster_."

She continued to stare at the Joker in bafflement.

"Ya see, every single human being is unkind and malicious. I'm a monster because I look like one, I speak like one; what about those filthy rich men and women who use their wealth for their own pleasure? What about those people who hired me to steal and kill? The only difference between me and them is that I'm audacious and they are weaklings. We are all the same." He grinned. "Don't you agree? You and I are the same."

"No, I'm not, and I do believe there are other people who are different," she debated.

"You doubt my statement?" his left eyebrow leaped very swiftly. He stuck his tongue out and licked his upper lips.

She swallowed the words she were about to speak, the name she was about to state. Was that a bad idea?

"Go on," he nodded as though he would accept any kind of answers, or he thought he already knew the answer.

"Batman," she coughed. "He… uh…"

"Ah," he sighed. "A Batman fan, aren't you?"

She gulped.

"A saint, you think he is," he giggled. "Ya think a vigilante is a hero? Punishing criminals by himself, calling it justice… Oh, do you remember Harvey Dent, the White Knight of Gotham? Blah blah blah~ He is remarkable man, isn't he?"

She could sense the sarcasm and irony in his tone. She knew something was fishy about the death of Harvey Dent. She raised an eyebrow before she asked, "What do you mean?"

"You're a smart girl, you'll understand." He pinned a wide grin on his face. Without hesitation, he changed the topic. He sat upright and placed his hands together. He was playing with his fingers. "So, aren't you here for an interview? What do you want to ask?"

She started to bit her thumb nervously. She was faltering, or to be more precise, scrupling and belligerent inside her core. She did not forget about the aim to visit this ruthless villain, but she couldn't help herself being curious of Harvey Dent's death. She knew there was something dubious about this incident.

"What actually happened to Harvey Dent?" She asked seriously.

"I'm sure you're not here to ask this," the Joker raised his eyebrows.

She shook her head and returned to her original purpose of visiting the Joker. She knew how many times she asked the same question, the Joker would not answer.

"Ever since you were sent to the asylum, did uh… Batman come and visits you?"

"I wish," he licked his lips again. "But he didn't. It was quite disappointing. I miss him, somehow."

"Not even once? He didn't come to check you out?"

"I thought you came here to ask about _me_, but all you've been talking about ever since you stepped into my room was Batman," he frowned. "Are you really here to interview me or are you just coming here to dig news about Batman? I heard he was long gone, disappeared. Do you believe it?"

She paused for a moment before she replied, "no, I don't. I'm sure he's still here."

"The same goes with me. I'm sure my _favourite_ hero is still in Gotham City. Soon, we'll meet again," the Joker smirked.

_What does he mean?_ Whatever he meant, she didn't feel at all comfortable about it.

"It's pretty late now, don't you think you ought to go back home?" the Joker asked while staring across the window of the room. "It's not nice for a girl to go home alone in the dark."

Beaumont stared at the sky. It was dark and gloomy. She didn't realise it was raining heavily. She couldn't tell what time it was by the colour of the sky.

"It's not that late now, you know? We still have some time to-"

"To what?" the Joker leaned forward. His creepy face was staring directly at Beaumont. His breath was terrible; his hair was tickling her cheek. She had met a lot of menacing and daunting men, but never any of them sent her spine chilling like the Joker. Her heart was racing, pumping madly as never she had experienced before.

"Nothing!" She squealed and fell off from her chair. Her buttock knocked onto the floor which sent her a sudden stung. She quickly stood up and tidied up herself.

"Yes, you're right. It's pretty late now. I should go. Thank you for spending your precious time for the interview. Goodbye." She spat as speedily as possible. She headed towards the door and before she could actually leave the room, she almost knocked onto Quinzel, who seemed to be standing outside of the room the whole time, listening to their little conversation covertly behind the door.

"Goodbye, Dr Quinzel," before she finished her goodbye line, Beaumont's footsteps continued pacing forward.

"What did she do?" Quinzel asked the Joker, she did not look pleased at all. She scowled at the Joker. It was the sense of jealousy.

"Nothin'," the Joker lifted the left side of his lips. "Are you ready for tonight?"

"Yes. Everything is according to plan," she smirked.

"She would be hectic after tonight, don't you think?" the Joker asked, pondering. Slowly, he cupped his jaw.

"So what? It's not like it has got anything to do with us."

"Luck is just not at her side," the Joker continued to speak, without taking note to Quinzel's statement.

"I thought you don't believe in luck."

The Joker chuckled. "I don't."

Beaumont finally reached home, soaking wet. It was indeed a heavy pouring rain outside. She felt she was really unfortunate to have picked the worst weather of the day to meet the Joker. She started sneezing after she went into her house.

"I'm home," she sneezed again. After a few seconds, she realised there was no reply in the house, she could only hear her own echo.

"I'm home," she repeated. She walked into the kitchen to find no one. She thought probably her grandmother was out with her friends again. She continued to walk to the living room and turned on the TV. She tuned to the news channel and went into her room to take a shower.

She stood in front of her cupboard to choose her pyjamas. Then, she slowly unbuttoned her white blouse which was sticking onto her skin.

"Breaking news! This is Cecelia Rinova from GBC (Gotham Broadcasting Corporation). We have just received outrageous news from Arkham Asylum. Just about an hour ago, the Joker had broken out from the asylum with Dr Jonathan Crane. Dr Harleen Quinzel, an intern psychiatrist who works in the asylum, was also found missing. The government and GCPD have-"

Beaumont ran to the living room as she heard what had been aired in the TV. She continued to watch intensely the news.

"Yes, it is confirmed that the Joker is missing from Arkham Asylum, but no worries, my fellow citizens. The police department will do their best to find the Joker and Gotham City will return its peace," a man with his name listed below his image, Lieutenant Gerard Hennelly, stated. "Please do not fear."

"The Joker is what?" she continued to ask herself with curiosity. "No, I just saw him just now. How can he…"

She couldn't explain to herself what had just happened. She calmed herself down while resting her body on the couch just in front of the TV set. Now that she finally had her mind at serene, she thought of something. The Joker did ask her to leave indirectly.

_No wonder he hinted me to leave! He had been planning to break out from Arkham Asylum!_ She snapped.

Without notice, she heard her house entrance door being knocked off and tons of people running into her house. Before she could recognise those people, she felt her arms being grasped and her head was covered by a black sack.

"Hey!" she screamed and tried to struggle but the grasps were really strong. "Who the hell are you? Let me go!"

"Miss Beaumont, you are now under arrest due the Joker's break out," and that was the final words she heard before leaving her house.


	3. Chapter 3: The Troublemaker

**Disclaimer:** I do not own/associate with Batman nor any of the fictional characters. This is merely just a fan fiction.

**A/N:** Sorry for taking such a loooooong time to update! I know it's been a year! I'm starting my uni life now so I can't really find much time to write... And well, since I'm on my midterm break now, I thought I could spare some time for updates, and here we are! Chapter 3! (Actually I've written this since last year but it wasn't complete yet, till now!)

**- Chapter Three -**

**The Troublemaker**

"I've told you a thousand times, I-don't-know! I have no idea how the Joker escaped! I don't know where the hell he is!"

It had been about 2 hours Beaumont was _imprisoned_ in the so-called investigation room (where the space in the room was really confined; the air was filled with stench, which was really appalling). Her skin was terribly sticky, her clothes were soaked, her hair was cluttering at each other, her feet were bare and exposed – she wasn't wearing any shoes.

She could recognise one of the police officer, whose face appeared in the TV just now (when she was still at home) – Lieutenant Gerard Hennelly. He looked younger and his features seemed more genial compared to watching him through the TV, though he was not at all smiling. His eyes were fixed and attached to hers.

"You were the last person who visited him before he escaped the asylum, and now you are telling me that you have no idea about it?" The tone was cold and sarcastic. One of the police officers bellowed and slammed the metal table pugnaciously, which sent a blow of formidable crashing sound. Beaumont jumped a little and then continued staring at the sunken part of the metal table as a result of the fists thump dreadfully, while swallowing the lump in her throat. "If you were in my shoes, will you believe this _crap_?"

Beaumont wanted – desired to reply him with numerous nods eagerly, but she couldn't, she mustn't. She bit her lips so intensely that now, her lips started to bleed. She licked the wound tenderly and continued to stare at the men standing in front of her. She remained in silence, which was the only thing she thought she should do, for that exact moment.

"Stop being mute and tell us what you know!" Another police officer yelled.

"What do you want me to say? I-I-I really have no idea!" Beaumont's temper started to flare. She had never offended any laws, nor had she ever been handcuffed, nor had she been dragged to the police department - and now she was strained by a bunch of men who thought she was responsible to the jailbreak of Mr Joker? Never, never accuse this woman for doing something she did not commit. "Are you going to force me to admit what I didn't do? And then _what_? Even if I have admitted, do you think I can provide you any information about the Joker? Even if you were to threaten me with a gun pointing to my head, I don't give a damn anymore!"

The police officers stared blankly at her, dumbfounded by her sudden wrath. When Beaumont suddenly realised what she had done, her fingers slowly crawled to her lower lip. She almost muttered "shit" for realising her sudden blurt which had been concealed in her mind. This could screw her life gravely.

A man, middle aged, with an unkempt auburn hair, a thick moustache drooping above his mouth, wearing a pair of brown full-frame spectacles. Beaumont was aware of him. With the first gaze, she could distinguish him. She didn't like him; she used to like him because he was a very responsible and world-known non-corrupted-cop, but ever since he destroyed the Bat Signal, the affection had plunged and went to the stage where she disliked him.

Gordon whispered to the men in the rectangular room. He gaped at Beaumont for a second before leaving the room. The men gave a heavy sigh and turned their heads toward Beaumont. One of them spoke, "you're free to go now."

Beaumont raised an eyebrow, could not believe her own ears. She frowned. "Sorry?"

"You're free to leave this building," he repeated, "_now_."

Beaumont pushed her chair a little behind with a small thrust by her hips and stood up bafflingly. She could not stop herself from staring at those men who roared so ferociously in front of her just now, wondering if they would suddenly seized by her arms and pushed her back to that chair. As she reached the door, she quickly increased her pace to set out of that room, to feel more secure, to feel _safe_. She couldn't help herself but to look into Gordon's office. She was inquisitive to the reason behind of why he allowed her to be freed. Just… w_hy?_

Gordon was alone, walking back and forth in his room. At first, Beaumont thought he was talking to his cell phone, but then she realised, both of his arms were swaying as he walked. It seemed as though there was another person in the room. She tried to take a peek of what was happening in the room. As she was getting nearer, the image of the room was sharper despite of the half-closed blinds dangling by the rectangular window facing inwards. Yes, she saw a dark figure, so black it was almost compatible with the colour of the night sky. You can't see it unless you squint your eyes so exclusively and pay full focus to that outline. It was indeed a familiar silhouette. She turned the door knob but then it was locked.

Gordon twisted his head and glared at her. He walked towards the door, opened it, and frowned. "What is the problem now, Miss Beaumont?"

She continued to stare into the room, trying hard to stretch her neck into the room as deep as possible, but Gordon's body was huge enough to block her way. "I thought I… is there… I saw…"

She faltered. The words in her mind became a puzzle, somehow.

"Nevermind," she bit her lips and finally relaxed her neck.

"Well then, goodnight, Miss Beaumont." Gordon continued with a slam of the door which startled not only Beaumont, but the whole department's staffs.

She stared at her feet. She started to doubt her eyesight, whether she was being illusive, or maybe she was too tired… She thought she saw _Batman_. It was surreal and incomprehensible. She continued to convince herself that what she saw was an illusion caused by the trauma she faced and the whole frenzied night. As she was out of the building, she continued to stare at the dark sky once more, just to seek for chances to see that familiar silhouette.

…

"I saw you on TV last night!" Simon exclaimed. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Beaumont refused to explain.

"The chief is exhilarated, actually," Simon continued. "He wants you to write an article about your experience and journey with the Joker!"

"Seriously?" She asked disbelievingly. That whole process was the one thing she did not want to remember, not to mention 'recall'. And the one last thing she would want these people to be is a little bit more compassionate and empathy.

"Seriously! He said it'll be a hit! Total jackpot!"

"We have a date with Wayne this afternoon," she ignored Simon's statement and continued to grab her bag to leave.

"C'mon, Carl!"

"Fine, I'll go alone."

…

Gordon stared at the night sky. It was so shadowy, as though signalling the future of Gotham City with the jailbreak of the Joker, bleak and menacing. He let out of a sigh as he slowly removed his glasses and wiped it with his jacket.

"Having a headache with the jailbreak of the Joker?" A familiar hoarse voice appeared outside of Gordon's office. He turned his head towards the window and saw the shadow of the hero, the Dark Knight of Gotham City. Batman was squatting on the opened window, his hands gripping onto the wall firmly. He cautiously jumped off the window and disembarked on the floor of the office. Gordon could feel the sudden tremor of his office.

"B-B-Batman!" He called out the name he had never read out for the last uncountable months. He was stunned and the appearance of the Batman, still with the same suit, same cape and same mask. "You're… here. You heard the news, didn't you?"

"The Joker is out now. Gotham City will fall to its darkest days again." The Batman foretold.

"That's why you return."

"I will try to perceive his targets and aims, meanwhile you and your guys, be prepared for his precipitous and abrupt furore."

"Sure. What else do you need?"

Batman thought for a second. They still had no idea what the Joker was planning. Batman could not envisage his actions, yet. Everything happened too soon, too unpredictable.

"Nothing, for now," Batman was heading towards the window. He jumped up to the opened window again. "By the way, that lady you cuffed in just now, she has nothing to do with the Joker."

"I have received the note you left on my table earlier, I have asked my boys to release her," Gordon continued his footsteps towards the Batman. "How can I contact you?"

They heard someone turning the doorknob. Batman turned his sight at the vague image of Beaumont.

"You don't have to, I will come to you again," then Batman jumped off the window and flew off, just like the old days.

The ring of the phone snapped Wayne from recalling last night's meeting with Gordon. It was almost ruined by the journalist. Wayne thought of Beaumont as a problem, her existence to Wayne was a problem. She sought troubles, strived for jeopardy, attached with death, doted by bad lucks. Of course, Wayne did not loathe her, he was just plainly commiserated with her fate.

"Mr Wayne," the sexy voice of the secretary transmitted through the phone.

"Yes, Ms Brough?"

"You have an appointment with the journalist of Gotham Globe, Carl at 1.15p.m."

Wayne took a look at the brass-made table clock with Roman Numberings carved on it. It was showing 1.10p.m. "Thanks, sexy."

Wayne placed the phone back and sighed. "Interview, interview, interview…"

He had never liked interviews, because he had to put up a show and played the character of Casanova, to disguise as the Brat Prince of Gotham City, to conceal his soul with an invisible mask, and the spiteful fact was that there were only two living persons to know the truth behind this impractical veneer – Alfred Pennyworth, the butler of Wayne Manor and Lucius Fox, the President of Wayne Enterprise (excluding the accountant fired the last time when he was trying to threaten Wayne with his true identity as Batman).

As Wayne was preparing for the appointment, another ring projected from the phone. Wayne picked up the phone. "Mr Wayne, Mr Townsend's on the line. Should I ask him to return his call later?"

Wayne never really wanted to meet with journalists; he would definitely prefer speaking to the potential target of the Joker. "No, it's fine."

The line was transferred after the reply. "Yes, Mr Townsend?"

"Mr Wayne," the voice of the podgy man spoke. Even his voice sounded flabby, or maybe just Wayne was being prejudice. "When should we discuss about our fusion in business? I am deeply sorry to say that I am being a little impatient because I am really keen towards our collaboration in work."

"Why not now?"

"Perfect, and I am just walking into your company."

"Ah, I see. I'll meet you in minutes. Please wait for me at the antehall while I rush my footsteps down. See you, Mr Townsend." Wayne slammed the phone and immediately rushed out of the office.

As he marched out of his room, he turned to his secretary. "Cancel the meeting with the journalist. I'm going to meet with Townsend now."

"But, sir, the journalist is on the way-"

"You handle it," Wayne winked at the secretary before he continued to walk towards the elevator. As the door of the elevator opened, he made his way to the antehall.

"Mr Wayne!"

_Not that voice…_

"Ms… Beaumont?" He frowned as he found himself in a bizarre situation. "What a surprise."

"You have an appointment with us at 1.15p.m. Where are you heading off to? I thought our meeting is in your office?" Her straight dark cherry hair was resting on her shoulder. "Are we going somewhere?"

"_You_ are Carl? Wow." Wayne let out a sardonic chuckle. "But I'm sorry I'll have to pass. I thought my secretary has informed you that the meeting is canc-"

"No, she hasn't and the meeting will not be cancelled."

"She did not? Well then, I suppose I'll have to dismiss her and get a new secretary, though I'll be quite disheartened for the loss of such sexy-"

"Mr Wayne!" Townsend's voice propelled from behind of Beaumont.

Beaumont turned her head to look at the overweight man, having trouble holding his belly while walking towards their direction. Wayne almost smacked his forehead when he realised the '_problem'_ encountered the trouble.

"Oh, hello there," Townsend scanned Beaumont from head to the toes. His eyebrows rose.

"Good afternoon," she greeted unexpectedly, trying to beam as naturally as possible.

"Have we met before?"

Considering Beaumont was wearing a pair of thick black-coloured-frame glasses and her hair was not tied like the last time they met, it was most likely that Townsend could not recognise her. Beaumont slowly blinked her bluish grey eyes and shook her head uneasily. "No, we have not."

"Hmm, that would be reasonable, as I am a man who never forgets beautiful faces like yours."

Beaumont gulped tensely as she exchanged looks with the dangerously calm Wayne.

"By the way, I am Fred Townsend," he introduced himself as he raised his right arm, expecting Beaumont to introduce herself and respond to his handshake.

Beaumont froze as she was bewildered by the situation. Why was Townsend here? Was Townsend going to make a concordat with Wayne Enterprise? Was Wayne involved in mobsters and racketeers? There were so many questions darting into her mind, but whatever the truth was, it was indisputably worthy for her assignment.

"I'm-"

"She's my new intimate acquaintance," Wayne cut in unpredictably.

"Intimate… acquaintance?!" Beaumont slowly muttered the words with her teeth snugly clenched while shooting her flickering glare at Wayne. She continued with a hefty purr. "Are you out of your mi-"

"In short, she's _mine_," Wayne moved a step so that he was standing in between Townsend and Beaumont, barring Townsend for having any further conversations or eye contact with Beaumont. Townsend tried to stretch his neck right and left to glance at Beaumont. Wayne continued sombrely. "So stop your attempts on cajoling her."

Beaumont grabbed onto Wayne's left arm, in effort of pushing him away, unfortunately, Wayne was inexplicably sturdy. No matter how much energy she exercised in the attempt, Wayne was still standing securely like a statue, not even his hair was revealing any signs of movement.

"I understand completely, Mr Wayne," Townsend let out a couple of perturbed coughs. "So, shall we head off for our lunch?"

"Sure, Mr Townsend," Wayne smiled so genuinely, so effortlessly, as though nothing happened. The smile was not at all awry or uneasy-looking. It was flawless. Yet, it gave this feeling of malicious and virtuous. He was like a devil with an archangel's miens; a demon with angel's wings; a total disguise. He was a man living with a veil, a man that needs to be comprehended. Why does a man need to live under a frill, especially man like Bruce Wayne, the billionaire in Gotham City who possesses the power and wealth to do whatever he wants? Or was it the act of tycoon?

Wayne turned his head at Beaumont's direction; his stare was intense and ferocious, as though he was going to eat her up anytime like a ravenous tiger. "Do not _interfere_."

His voice was guttural and gruff, instigating Beaumont to swallow that bothersome lump restlessly. Wayne then strode alongside with Townsend out of the building, leaving Beaumont standing alone in the middle of the antehall.

"Simon," Beaumont spoke on her cell phone. "Change of plan. We're going to extract info tonight."

Beaumont ended the call without hesitation. The puzzle gave Beaumont a slight headache. How to start, where to start, who to start with? Why on earth did the chief have to assign her such horrendous task? Of all people, Bruce Wayne… seriously?

Meanwhile, Wayne entered Townsend's metallic black G-Wayne electric car.

"Oh, you've bought one of these," Wayne chortled.

"Of course, Mr Wayne, I have to buy my partner's merchandises."

Wayne sneered. "Our partnership has not come to consent yet, Mr Townsend."

Townsend cleared his perturbed throat while loosening the taut black tie enfolding his neck. "That is why we're going to lunch together, to discuss about the partnership."

"Have anyone contacted you lately?" Wayne asked casually.

"Who, in precise?" Townsend asked frankly, knowing the intention of Wayne's question.

"Someone who has been lost in contact."

"Mr Wayne, please do be precise. Name, please."

Wayne remained in silence. He refused to speak the name, because he wanted Townsend to reveal the name of the felon, so then he could confirm both of them have connections.

"Do you mean my previous supplier, who has successfully escaped from the asylum?" Townsend cleared his throat, his tone was rather uneasy. "Are you somehow interested with him?"

With this slightest clue, it was enough to satiate Wayne's curiosity for the moment. He did not want to prolong their meeting to cause any unusual suspicion. He still needed this middleman.

"I am a very busy businessman, you see. I don't really have much time for discussion." The car stopped when the traffic light turned red. "I'm sorry but I have another appointment now."

Wayne opened the door, leaving the astounded Fred Townsend sitting still in the car, congealed like an ice cube. "Mr Wayne!"

"Ah," Wayne turned his head before he closed the door. "If you are truly certain about the partnership, you can send the proposal to my secretary. Good day, Mr Townsend."

Without faltering, Wayne sent a fling to the car's door and waved Townsend goodbye. He looked at his surrounding as he slowly drew out his cell phone.

"Alfred, pick me up. "

…

The Gotham City was dangerously reticent at night time. The forlorn man, with that tubby body, was sitting in the regal restaurant, waiting for his meal to arrive, alone. The shirt he was wearing would almost tear itself apart if he would move another muscle; the buttons securing his shirt were straining themselves so that they would not be torn apart. Even though his subordinates were surrounding him in the restaurant, he still felt lonely and secluded. Watching the other customers of the restaurant eating with their acquaintances deteriorate the lone in his heart.

As his meal was served, the beautiful waitress nodded with a smile carved on her face. How desperately he wanted to invite her to enjoy the dinner with him, to kill off that lonesomeness he was suffering at the moment, but she strode off so expeditiously to serve another meal that prohibited him from unlocking his mouth. He heaved an abysmal sigh, so deep that he could almost hear it echoed in his mind.

Leisurely, he took a knife and a fork from the cutlery placing neatly on the table. He cut the steak skilfully, like a surgeon undergoing a surgery; his fingers were gracefully dancing along with the knife. As he finished lacerating a small piece, he placed the piece of meat gently into his mouth. As he chewed the piece of meat, the delectable juice of the meat was squeezed out. It was fresh and natural, sweet and salty at the same time. He grabbed onto the wine glass, swivelled the plum-colour liquor to form a miniature whirlpool, and then he positioned the mouth of the wine glass near his nostril so he could inhale completely the concentrated scent of the wine. He took a sip of the liquor and started to digest it first from his mouth. The taste was so rich and so dark. Blackberry notes with other black fruits; the taste was very dense yet smooth to drink; easy to drink yet complex when it goes into other organs. He could feel a sudden rush of warm blood rushing in his veins.

_The Saxum 2007, rated as the wine of year 2010… I cannot express the savour with words at all… And the steak, such flawless medium rare cooked… If only a beautiful woman would come and enjoy this moment with me, and my night would be filled with perfection and satiation._

This desirous and avaricious wish was not impossible to be fulfilled, as a woman sat down on the chair opposite of his direction. Her dark cherry hair was tied into a high bun, with a few strands of cherry curls drooping beside of her ears. Her hazel eyes were staring at him, so fervently, so enticing. Every time she dropped her eyelids, he never failed to glimpse at those long and curvy dark eyelashes. She was Michelle Grey!

"Mr Townsend, what a surprise to meet you here," she could kill him with only that voice, that frequency of her voice. _So erotic…_

"Ms Grey!" he exclaimed, almost sounded like a screech, driven by the total exhilaration.

"So you do remember me!" She said, filled with astonishment. "I'm flattered."

"How can I forget such a beauty? I've been looking for you, but my searching troupe has been disappointing me, and yet, now, you, my angel, appear once again."

"Right," she was lost of words suddenly. She did not know where to start and how to start. She wanted to give herself a few blows so badly because she refused to rehearse before coming here. She was overestimating herself in impromptu situations. "I heard you and Bruce Wayne are commencing a partnership."

"Speaking of that," Townsend seemed to be inflamed by this topic. "Bruce Wayne was such a charlatan! Let's not talk about this, it makes me irritable."

"So, there's no partnership between you two?"

"No," his answer was evident with that unambiguous tone in his voice. "I don't know!"

"Will you please excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom," she hastily exempted herself from a non-benefit situation temporary to enquire her next move.

She withdrew her cell phone from her handbag and dialled the numbers. "Simon, he's rejecting the partnership with Townsend."

"Who?" Simon asked, his voice was gloomy and drowsy, must be awakened by the phone call from his slumber land.

"Bruce Wayne! And now we're completely losing our main title for the article! What are we going to do?" She started rubbing her head and another few strands fell from the hair bun. "Now we have to find another fault from Wayne to criticise him. We have to start from zero. And the deadline is nearby!"

She was so unfulfilled, aggravated, discouraged. She had been preparing for this article and now she had to start from zero again. All of her efforts from the past few weeks were going into the dumpster, waste!

"You know what? Nevermind, I'm sure we'll be able to fix things," Beaumont reassured, trying to be optimistic. "Sorry for the call."

She took a few bottomless breaths, which were really helpful in calming herself. The next thing she had to do was chucking out Townsend. She returned to the table self-assuredly. Townsend was not at all in any doubts.

"What took you so long?" Townsend teased puerilely.

"I just got a call," she was still standing, ready to take her leave anytime. "I have to go now."

"What? You're not going to eat with me?" His reverberation was crammed with utter distraught and dejection.

"Uh," she faltered. "Well, I guess I can spare a couple of minutes here, to have a sip of the wine."

"Sure, that would be great!" He handed her a cup of wine. "Here you go!"

"Wow, that's… very much." Beaumont stared inanely at the almost fully filled wine glass. "You know, I'm not much of a drinker."

"It's alright, just take a sip. Everything will be _fine_." Somehow, it didn't give much assurance and comfort to Beaumont, but well, a sip won't hurt, will it?

Beaumont took over the wine glass steadily and placed it to her mouth. She took one sip, swift and unwavering. She wasn't a drinker but she knew she wasn't an inferior drinker. After this sip, she was going to stand up and bid goodbye. Yet, as she stretched her legs, she realised they were feeble. She could barely feel her muscles. She was getting frail and weak, even a tiny blow of the wind was able to send her flying. Then, her mind was starting to be unfilled, she could not think. Her head was throbbing and aching. Her vision was a patch of fuzzy image, everything was out of focus. She could barely see or hear anything. Everything was smudged and splodged. She could not even feel anything mentally or physically.

"It's alright, Michelle. We're heading home now." Whether or not she agreed to it, Townsend was going to take her back to his lair, so that he could taste her, savour her, all by himself. The thought of it aroused him ecstatically. He couldn't wait to nibble her. He carried her left arm and let it curled around his shoulder while letting her feet draggling on the floor. Beaumont was of course, not entirely knocked out, instead she was able to groan softly to herself, or in Townsend's point of view, to him, which thrilled him so badly. He almost wanted to taste her in his car.

"Mr Townsend!" Townsend heard a voice of an interlude. His heartbeat was walloping. _Go away!_

"Mr Wayne," he turned his head grudgingly. He could feel his fist quivering with mixed feeling.

"I think you are holding onto something that belongs to me?" Wayne notified with a rise of both eyebrows.

"She is not yours, Wayne. You have the woman we met this afternoon!" Townsend retaliated. It was a total reflex. "If you want her, you gotta transcend my underlings first."

"I'm not picking a fight tonight, Townsend," Wayne cleared his throat. He was unfastening a few buttons of his clothes, whether or not it was caused by the weather of that night, no one knew. "I am giving you options to choose."

Townsend was still reluctantly to hand out his prize of the night. He tried to continue listening to Wayne's bargain.

"Partnership or the girl, you choose." Wayne stated tranquilly. "Wealth or woman?"

"How can I trust you that you will establish partnership between the two of us if I hand you the woman?"

"Here is the agreement paper," Wayne leisurely drew out a document from his black leather jacket. "Take it or leave it."

Townsend was in a dilemma. He had to follow according to _the_ plan, but he had to lose his trophy. Such decision was like a woman choosing between a poor young handsome man and an old wealthy dying man. But of course, people were still able to choose, according to their convictions and aspirations. Same goes to poor Townsend, who chose to hand over his most cherished prize, the one of a million golden chances.

"Fine," Townsend sulked rancorously while slowly and so unwillingly passing his prize to Wayne, while snatching the papers away from Wayne. He let out a weighty hiss before turning his back against the two and walked into his car.

Wayne slowly carried Beaumont into his Lamborghini.

"So, what's the plan now?" Alfred asked while turning his head towards Wayne.

"Just follow the plan."

"You know, it surprises me that you actually came here to save this girl, Master Wayne," Alfred uttered while frowning. "And don't tell me you have no affection towards her."

"I don't, Alfred," Wayne cleared his throat. "I just simply want to help this _problem_. She could be useful."

"I know you, Master Wayne. I've been serving you and your family for decades. I know when you're lying-"

"Just drive, Alfred!"


End file.
